Killing Space
by Gothenheim.J
Summary: While dug in in Bastogne, Winters and a battlefatigued Nixon have a conversation, which leaves both men questioning the validity of war.


I don't own Band of Brothers, and I'm not making any money off of this.

They sat huddled in their foxhole, shivering, grasping their tin mugs of coffee trying to gain even a little warmth. Major Winters looked over at his fellow soldier and friend, Captain Lewis Nixon, who had been unusually quiet that morning. He was staring out blearily toward the line, blinking a little as some snowflakes drifted into his eye.

Seeming to pick up on his questioning gaze, Nixon took a long drought from his cup and sighed, breath misting in the cold air.

"You know," He started finally, eyes never leaving the line "The Nazis have pieces of flair that they make the Jews wear."

Dick stared at him a moment, not sure of what to say. The war seemed to be getting to him lately. Hell it was starting to get to all of them, especially out here in Bastogne, but he was starting to worry. More and more Lewis seemed to be slacking, like his mind was elsewhere. Maybe combat fatigue was starting to affect him. Hell, Doc Roe had started to crack under the pressure, so maybe…..

Lewis heaved another sigh, eyes narrowing a little, and he sipped his coffee again.

"Want to go back to CP? Get some coffee?"

What? They were all cold, all tired, and they were already drinking coffee.

"What, Nix, we can't-"

"I gotta get out of here. I think I'm gonna lose it."

He grimaced at the word, the hollow, deadpan of Nixon's voice. He sounded so defeated; like he didn't care anymore whether he lived or died. Maybe he should have him sent back for a while for some rest. Claim it as a case of trench foot. Some time to rest and recuperate, and then maybe Nixon would be back to his old self again.

Nixon finally turned his eyes toward him and he snuffled, wiping at his nose, which was red from the cold.

"Human beings were not meant to sit in little foxholes staring at enemy lines all day, fighting a useless battle and listening to eight different CO's drone on about mission statements."

"A-are you feeling okay, Lew? I don't-"

But Nixon wasn't giving him time to finish, some dark, nagging thoughts finally finding a place to come out. Perhaps he just needed to get all of this off his chest.

"Let me ask you something. When you come out of your foxhole in the morning, and you're not feeling real well, does anyone ever ask you 'Sounds like someone has a case of homesickness?'"

"Well, no. I'm sure we're all homesick Lew. If this is about your wife, well, you know you can talk to me about anything."

But Nixon just waved off the comment shaking his head.

"So I was sitting in my foxhole and I realized, ever since we came to Europe, every day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life."

Dick cleared his throat, and eyed his friend warily.

"What about today?" He ventured finally, wanting to get to the bottom of his friend's melancholy. "Is today the worst day of your life?"

"Yeah." Nixon replied without hesitation, nodding a little as he pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

It was easy for morale to drop like this. They were cold, surrounded, low on food and ammo, and weren't properly outfitted for these conditions. But once Easy Company managed to make a break in the enemy lines and push the Germans back, he was confident that the men's morale would raise. He hoped so, for all their sakes.

But what he was hearing from Nixon, that was just….. messed up.

While he mused over it, he didn't even realize the other man was still talking, and snapped back to attention just as he finished voicing another morose thought.

"I uh, I don't like war, and, uh, I don't think I'm gonna go anymore."

"You're just not gonna go?" Winters echoed, unable to quite believe what he was hearing.

"Yeah." Lewis nodded, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"Won't you get court-martialed?"

"I don't know, but I really don't like it, and, uh, I'm not gonna go."

"So you're going to try and get a discharge?"

"Nuh-uh. Not really. Uh... I'm just gonna stop going."

No, he couldn't be hearing one of his closest comrades say these things. It just didn't make sense. How could a man suddenly just lose all hope about his position, his _job_?

"When did you decide all that?" Had this dark fantasy been brewing in the back of Nixon's mind for some time? If so, how long? Since Market Garden went belly up? Since they landed in Normandy? Hell, had he been harboring these thoughts before they even left Camp Toccoa?

"About an hour ago." He shrugged, before falling silent, still staring out at the German lines, blinking sleepily as he watched for any movement.

An hour ago? Had Nixon finally cracked under the strain and come to the conclusion that this was all a lost cause?

Dick Winters sighed quietly and readjusted his helmet before dumping out the rest of his coffee and huddling in close to his friend, surveying the lines as well. There was no more point in talking now. If….. no, when they got out of Bastogne, then maybe he and Lewis could find a way to get to the bottom of is problem. But until then, they still had a position to hold.


End file.
